THE ESSEQUEBO RIVER
Vainly does each, as he glides,
Fable and dream
Of the lands which the River of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.
MATTHEW ARNOLD: _The Future_.
The problem of improving the Colony’s lines of communication into the
interior may be said to be the problem of circumventing the Essequebo
River. For instance, it is the Essequebo and its tributary the Rupununi
which ought to form a natural highway across British Guiana to Brazil.
But the cattle-track, just opened to Georgetown from the Colony’s lowland
savannahs near the Brazilian border, studiously avoids the Essequebo,
which it touches only at Kurupukari, there crossing the river and leaving
it for good. Again, the Essequebo and its tributary the Cuyuni should
form the main avenue of approach from British Guiana to Ciudad Bolivar
on the Orinoco, in the heart of Venezuela. But it is very likely that,
when the time comes for linking this Colony to Venezuela by road or
railway, the line will but touch the Essequebo to bridge its estuary,
and then make across country to the Tumeremo savannahs. Similarly, the
problem of reaching Kaietuk and the highland savannahs of British Guiana
has now become the problem of avoiding the Essequebo.
It is a tantalizing river. Twelve miles wide at its mouth; two miles wide
at Bartika, where the commingled Cuyuni and Mazaruni join it; and still
fully the same width at Rockstone, where the Demerara-Essequebo Railway
strikes it—nevertheless, its innumerable cataracts and rapids make it
a snare and an illusion to the navigator. In fact, the _raison d’être_
of the Demerara-Essequebo Railway is to short-circuit the extremely
dangerous series of cataracts between Rockstone and Bartika, in which
many lives have been lost. By crossing the low divide between the two
rivers, the traveller reaches the Essequebo at Rockstone, well above
these dangers. He then has a navigable stretch of sixty miles before him
to Tumutumari.
[Illustration: WATERSMEET OF COMMINGLED CUYUNI AND MAZARUNI RIVERS WITH
ESSEQUEBO.
To face page 31.]
This short-circuit, however, misses some interesting country. At Bartika,
thirty miles below Rockstone, the commingled Cuyuni and Mazaruni Rivers
flow into the Essequebo, and very beautiful is the watersmeet of the
three stately streams. On one hand, the shining waters of the Cuyuni
invite one, as the morning mists roll away, to follow its gleaming track
to Venezuela; whilst, on the other, Mazaruni, “black water,” as its
Indian name implies, though flecked with spume from its dread cataracts,
has lured on many a diamond-seeker to the very shadow of Roraima’s
unscalable precipices.
Amid the mingling Mazaruni and Cuyuni, with a clear view down to the
Essequebo, lies Kyk-over-all, a tiny island, where the earliest Dutch
settlers lived in a fort, whose picturesque ruins still remain. These
hardy pioneers established themselves here as early as the opening years
of the seventeenth century, and traded with the Indians chiefly in anatto
dye. To “see over all” was indeed a necessity for that tiny handful of
white men, whose sole connection with Europe, civilization, and succour
was but one solitary ship in a year! The Dutch also established a
settlement at Kartabo, a bamboo-crowned point on the nearest mainland,
about half a mile away, whence a speedy flight to the fort could be made
in case of danger descried. Kartabo Point lies exactly between Mazaruni
and Cuyuni, and here the New York Zoological Society hopes to establish
a permanent research station under Dr. William Beebe, who considers the
neighbourhood a paradise from the naturalist’s point of view.
Within sight, a few miles downstream, His Majesty’s Penal Settlement
affords to the convicts all that Nature can offer to cheer their toil!
There is naturally no stone in the silted mud flat on which lies the
inhabited part of British Guiana; but the excellent granite of which the
hills near the Settlement are composed forms the quarry whence all the
stone used on the coast has been obtained. Convict labour has also built
a dry-dock adjacent to the prison.
I have never been beyond Kartabo on the Mazaruni, but I remember a
delightful expedition up the Cuyuni to Matope. We started from the Penal
Settlement in the delicious freshness of the early morning, and were
carried by the big prison launch to the foot of the Camaria rapids,
where there is a road-portage of three miles. “Jack” and “Jill,” two
panting Ford lorries, conveyed us with many bumps and jerks over the
uneven, hilly road. A prison gang was out “improving” the road-surface
by shovelling loose sand into the ruts. Their work looked very nice,
and certainly had not exhausted or overheated the dusky road-menders;
but poor “Jack” and “Jill” found sand-filled ruts more than they could
bear and constantly stuck fast, whilst their boiling radiators protested
noisily with spurts of angry steam, and “all man” found assisting them
out again distinctly more strenuous than road-mending. Next I have
memories of a long, lazy afternoon, when, embarked once more, we puffed
and panted slowly upstream from Camaria, or else drifted in lazy silence
on the bosom of the big sleepy river, whilst our out-board motor refused
to function. The delightful blue hills on each bank of the Cuyuni seemed
shouldering each other aside to catch a glimpse of the unaccustomed life;
and the exquisite peace made me wish “ever to seem falling asleep in a
half-dream,” until the diabolical spitting and puffing reasserted itself
and restored me to reality again.
We managed to reach Matope before dusk in spite of many breakdowns. Here,
amid tree-crowned rocks, the river swirls down in fifteen separate
cataracts; and, in the days of Wenamu and Pigeon Island gold booms,
Matope rest-house, post office, and bond-store were established on the
two most accessible islets, and a launch service plied thither. We were
joyously greeted by the black officer in charge of the station, who
proudly displayed to us the attractions of his lonely little domain and
ferried us in the gathering dusk—for twilight is, alas! unknown in the
tropics—across to the rest-house island, a most enchanting spot. Here,
after the bustle of disembarkation and the long, hot day, a bathe in the
cool, soft river water, like cream to the skin, was delightful indeed,
though it had to be accompanied by a furious splashing to frighten the
_pirai_, an unpleasant flesh-eating fish that nips off the fingers
and toes of the unwary ere they know it. Then, lulled by the musical
roar of the cataracts, we slept soundly until, at 3 a.m., the “howling
baboons” howled. To anyone who has never heard these creatures it is
perhaps impossible to convey any idea of this marvellous sound. The South
American baboons have howling bones in their throats, and at a distance
of some miles their “howl” sounds merely like a storm-wind soughing
through distant tree-tops; but, when they are close at hand, the whole
air is alive with the din, so that you cannot tell from which direction
it proceeds. Every nerve in your body tingles, and there is a curious
fascination in the great volume of sound, which used to remind me dimly
of the boom of the big temple-bell through the cryptomeria groves of
far-distant Japan.
Near Matope, on a hill-shoulder on the right bank of the river, stand
the ruins of the house in which the government gold officer of the
district used to live in the days of the big gold rushes. He must have
had a charming abode. We explored remains of a lovely garden terraced
in the hill-side. Beautiful clumps of feathery bamboo framed delicious
views of sky, river, and forest, adream in the golden sunlight; whilst
bougainvillea, oleander, and petrea made the foreground a riot of
colour. But Nature in tropical climates pursues her task of blotting
out the works of man with surprising swiftness. The house, a wooden
structure of the usual Creole type, had fallen to pieces inside under the
influence of wood-ants, and its three stories were filled with a glorious
alamander-bush, thrusting its golden blossoms everywhere, filling all
the deserted space, and forcing its way out over the roof.
Doubtless one day in the far-distant future these lovely reaches of
river will be colonized. Plantations of limes, coffee, and rubber will
replace the all-enveloping forests, and managers’ houses will crown the
little hills. Although so close to the equator, the sun in British Guiana
has little of its eastern fierceness and the climate is wonderfully
healthy, if elementary principles of hygiene and sanitation are observed.
Once away from the mosquito-ridden coastal swamps, our experience has
always been that we can expose and exert ourselves in a way that would
be impossible in the East, and I believe that on these inviting hills
white men, with wives and children, could live in health and comfort.
Communications are needed; motor-roads to run through the forest
connecting the settler with civilization and his neighbours. One pioneer,
Mr. G. B. Withers, has cleared and planted with rubber the hills on the
Mazaruni opposite the Penal Settlement, and has constructed a motor-road
through the forest to connect his estate with the Agatash Lime Plantation
on the Essequebo above Bartika. No metalling was necessary, since the
forest floor, once cleared of stumps, makes an admirable surface. All the
big forest trees have been left standing, only the “under-bush” being
removed, for shade thus prevents the swift upspringing of vegetable
growth which would occur in any place exposed to the direct rays of the
tropical sun. Cool even at midday, with hats and helmets removed to enjoy
the delicious shade, to drive along these cleverly-aligned gradients is a
treat indeed; and one dreams of the transformation which might be wrought
by motor transport in this unopened land.
But the day of motor-roads into the interior has not yet come, and we
reached Rockstone on our journey to Roraima by railway from Wismar.
At Rockstone the great width of the Essequebo is disguised, as almost
everywhere else, by islands; for immediately opposite the railway
terminus is Gluck Island, fully seven miles long, in whose marshy
jungle the Victoria Regia lily was originally found. Apart from the
railway-station, the only other building there is a pleasant little
bungalow hotel, in which we spent the night. The full moon over the
Essequebo was very pretty.
We started upstream from Rockstone at 6.30 a.m. on the 21st December,
1915, and arranged ourselves for a long day’s occupation of the _Ark_,
a primitive sort of house-boat, towed alongside the motor-launch which
plies regularly, when the state of the river permits, between Rockstone
and Tumatumari. The launch was a terribly noisy affair, and even in the
dignified seclusion of our _Ark_ we could not hear ourselves speak.
However, once comfortably established in hammocks, we could lose
ourselves in our books. One of the most important parts of an outfit for
a bush journey, and certainly one that requires very careful thought,
is the choice of one’s library; for who would dream of starting, like
Musset’s _Ninon_, “en voyage sans livre”? You want, first of all, books
that contain a good deal of reading matter in them, so that you may not
run through the pages too quickly; and the more they afford of piquant
contrast to the surroundings you are likely to encounter, the better;
whilst an enduring charm will be thrown for you over any favourite work
which has accompanied you across hill and dale and cheered hours of
weary waiting in the rain, or of provoking delays on the part of the
food commissariat. Sir George Trevelyan’s _Life and Letters_ of that
most delightful of men, Lord Macaulay, Macaulay’s Essays, _Kim_ and
_Vanity Fair_, have all acquired for me a peculiar and indescribable
flavour, since this or that passage recalls some incident of travel or
lazy hammock hours in river and forest, when, as supper was a-preparing
or the pit-pat of rain beat on our tent-roof, I lay luxuriating in the
delightfulness of freshly-donned, dry footgear and in the anticipation of
“pigtail soup.”
The Essequebo was unusually low on this occasion, and the silver
sand-reefs jutted out of the water like bones. At midday we were stopped
by the Kopano sands, which forbade further progress. Here we waited a
long three hours for a smaller launch, the _Nelly_, which was expected
downstream from Tumatumari to discharge her crowd of “balata-bleeders”
and “pork-knockers” into our bigger launch for their return journey _via_
Rockstone to the joys of a Christmas in civilization. We found the time
long, in spite of lunch, Lord Macaulay, and the view of a flat-topped
hill known as the Arosaro Mountain, a welcome sight to eyes that had
scarcely seen any rising ground for two years. It is a low forest-clad
hill with a flat top and cliff-edges, the first sounding of the Roraima
_leit-motif_. We were, however, anxious to reach Tumatumari that night,
for we knew that the _Ark_ must be left behind with the big launch, while
the tarpaulins and camp gear, that would have made a bivouac on the
river-bank tolerable, had preceded us by some days with our stores. At 3
p.m. we welcomed the sight of a puff of dark smoke on the wide stretch
of smooth, still water before us; but it was close on 4 p.m. before our
transhipment was complete and our fate committed to the launch _Nelly_.
She was quite unspeakable—filthy dirty, with a shocking vibration—but
we were thankful enough when she did vibrate, for the hateful little
thing constantly broke down and floated helplessly on the vast expanse
of desolate water, as we anxiously scanned the lingering daylight, the
while an unhappy son of Ham wrestled in vain with his engine. My husband
managed to sling a hammock for me inside the launch, and that was a great
comfort; but the noise was excruciating. The coxswain, a nice fellow
called Lekha, half East Indian and half black, said his orders were to
get us through, if possible, but that Crabbu Falls could not be run in
the dark. As he spoke, the vixenish launch broke down again, and required
half an hour’s patching up. A little later the engines stopped once more
for a quarter of an hour. We felt rather miserable, as a more comfortless
place in which to spend the night than that abominable little _Nelly_
could hardly be imagined, and no food was available, save tea and the
remains of a cake, with some slabs of chocolate which I fortunately had
handy; so we were now pretty hungry. By 6.30 p.m. it was dark. Rich,
fresh, sweet scents were wafted to us from the banks; but, though the
moon rose beautifully at 7 p.m., she hid her fickle light soon afterwards
behind a cloud-bank. However, our cox was a real good fellow. By help of
a very feeble light from the dimmed moon, he got us safely through Tigri
Rapids—a tortuous race between rocks—and at about 8.30 p.m. we got to
the foot of Crabbu Falls. Here another launch, the _Potaro_, was waiting
to help us up the rapid, and the blazing crude oil of her engines made
the night a weird _inferno_ of noise and glare. She was lying near a
sandy spit; and, when _Nelly_ got alongside her, we managed to push out a
plank, scrambled ashore, and strolled about to stretch our cramped limbs.
There was a banaboo of Patamona Indians near by, whose inhabitants came
out silently to watch at a safe distance our strange proceedings. The
flickering light of the burning oil lit up their dusky figures uncannily.
At length the moon, which was full, cleared somewhat, and Lekha decided
to risk the attempt of climbing the rapid. _Nelly_ and _Potaro_ were
lashed side by side and, steaming together, were to surmount the rapid.
But the first attempt failed. We steamed up, gaining ground inch by
inch, till, just as we were at the crest of the rapid, _Nelly’s_ engines
stopped again, and we had to slide back. Next time, however, _Potaro_
made the attempt towing _Nelly_ as dead-weight, and just did it. Lekha
then said that _Potaro_ drew too much water to continue safely upstream,
as she might hit on a sand-bank. But I declared that I would prefer
any fate to that of returning to _Nelly_; and Lekha, who was really a
sportsman, agreed to transfer our few belongings to the bigger launch
and take us on. Two miles above Crabbu Falls we entered the mouth of
the Potaro River, and puffed our hesitating way over its black course,
the moon having disappeared again as soon as she had seen us safely
surmount the rapid. Darkness, of course, hid from us the lovely view of
blue mountain ranges, which we have subsequently seen from Potaro mouth,
hills which verily looked to us the “delectable mountains.” We reached
Tumatumari, ten miles up the Potaro, shortly before midnight, as tired as
dinnerless folk well could be; but that was the only really unpleasant
day of all our forty days in the wilderness.
Such an experience naturally prompts the question: Is there no better way
of getting from Georgetown to the Potaro? Cannot this section also of the
Essequebo be circumvented? Yes, a better way has been found, but it has
not yet been made available for public use. There already exist eighteen
and a half miles of railway from Vreed-en-hoop, on the Demerara River,
opposite Georgetown, to Parika, on the Essequebo estuary. There also
exists a much-neglected road, 67 miles long, built years ago by prison
labour, from Bartika to the Kaburi gold-fields. It is now proposed to
extend the railway for a distance of some thirty-four miles from Parika
to a point opposite Bartika; and the trace has also been cut of a road
extension from Kaburi to a place known as Garraway’s Landing, on the
Potaro. The total distance from Bartika to Garraway’s Landing would be
about a hundred miles; and, if this route were made available for motor
traffic, it would be possible with suitable arrangements to make the
journey by train from Georgetown to Bartika and onwards by motor-car from
Bartika to the Potaro River in a single day between sunrise and sunset.
Such a line of communication would be a boon to the colonists both at
Bartika and on the Potaro River, besides being a great step towards
bringing the Kaietuk plateau within reach; and I hope the day may not be
far distant when its construction will be taken in hand.
THE POTARO DISTRICT